Three Days
by Sky Writes
Summary: When Sherlock hears the news of the death of his estranged father the childhood he's been running from for so long catches up to him. It takes 48 hours before he can tell John what's going on, and 72 before he has the courage to break down completely.
1. Prologue: Monday

_Prologue: Monday Night  
_

Sherlock's fingers tapped madly against the armchair, drumming a rhythm in tune with the frantic, racing thoughts going through his mind.

"Sherlock, did you hear me?"

Mycroft's voice echoed somewhere in the corners of his mind, snapping him back into reality, but he could not find his voice to reply.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Mycroft insisted, his tone a mix between frustration, pity, and concern. "Sherlock, I just told you your father's dead."

The rhythmic tapping of his fingers became more frantic. His mind felt like it might explode with frustration, and it was all he could do to not leap out of the chair.

His father, dead. How dare Mycroft ruin his otherwise peaceful evening with that kind of news. He hadn't so much as _thought_ of his father in years. Now Mycroft was sitting here, demanding some kind of reaction from him. He knew the horrors that would plague him if he even for one moment allowed himself to think back to his childhood, and it was all he could do to keep those memories at bay.

His father, dead.

He would have punched Mycroft if his brother didn't look so devastated.

"It's nothing he didn't deserve," Sherlock shot.

"He died in a head on collision!" Mycroft exclaimed.

When Sherlock refused to reply Mycroft sighed, running his hands over his face. His brother already looked so tired. How pathetic. His father was less than six hours dead, and Mycroft already looked as though someone broke him in half.

"Perhaps if he bothered to say anything to us in the past fifteen years I would feel more inclined to be upset," Sherlock said.

Mycroft slammed a fist against the side of the couch, and he was just preparing to shout something at him when the door opened and shut. Both of their heads spun towards the entryway to find John standing there.

"Are you two okay?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes flashed towards his brother, begging him not to say anything. The last thing he needed was John meddling in this, trying to convince him that he should _talk_ and discuss what he was going through.

Especially when the strange thing was, he really felt nothing.

Except hunger.

Possibly because John was carrying a bag of Chinese take-away.

An alert buzzed on his mobile and Sherlock took the phone out of his pocket. A great relief swept over him as he saw Lestrade's simple message: _"new case"_. Sherlock jumped out of his chair and grabbed his coat and the bag of food from John's hand.

"Seriously?" John moaned. "I just got off work."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed behind him, catching the attention of both John and Sherlock. "Thursday. Ten AM. If you're going to bother to show up."

The funeral, of course. Sherlock drew in a deep breath but didn't reply; he knew John's curious eyes were glued to him.

Three days. All he had to get through was three days and this would all be over. He could handle three days of John's questioning, of Mycroft's concerned phone calls, and he was certain he could handle the thought of his estranged father being gone. He would make it through the next three days, solve Lestrade's case, and then move on with his life.

"Come on, John," he muttered quietly.

John followed, letting out a dramatic sigh, and as they exited the flat he caught sight of his brother hiding his face with his hand.

Three days, that was all.

He had no idea just how hard those three days would be.

* * *

Author's Note: I know it's not much so far, but this is just insight on what's to come. I estimate this story will be fairly short, probably four or five chapters. It will deal with some fairly dark themes, but I will warn you when those arise. There's no set timeline for when this story takes place, mainly just somewhere after the first episode of series two. Let me know what you think and if you're interested in reading more!


	2. Day One: Tuesday

Warning: For now on this story may contain references to drug use and abuse.

* * *

_Day One_

Sherlock sighed as beat his fist against his forehead, trying to push away the boredom. Lestrade was inexcusably late to their meeting. It was bad enough John couldn't join them thanks to _work_. He was being driven mad by solitude, when normally he wouldn't be concerned. After a night of failing to sleep he was feeling more restless than usual. He knew this would eventually lead to a crash, and he was just buying his time to that point.

When Lestrade still didn't show up a few minutes later he jumped out of his seat and began pacing the room. He felt as though he were battling with his own mind. The funeral loomed closer; he somehow felt like his life was catching up to him. Like there was some kind of bomb waiting to go off, but he wasn't sure what would happen.

Mycroft hadn't texted him all morning, which was far too unusual. He couldn't imagine what his brother was going through. Being seven years older, Mycroft had the unfortunate experience of knowing their father for far longer. Sherlock was too young to remember most of it, only the haunting memories of shouting matches remained. By the time he himself was a teenager their father had lost hope…

Drawing in a deep breath, he began to muttering to himself.

"Stop it, stop it, _stop it_."

His eyes flew open and were instantly drawn to a folder on Lestrade's desk. He glanced towards the door, though he knew without looking it would be at least another ten minutes before the detective inspector bothered to show.

Carefully, he opened the folder…

And froze.

A picture of his father's corpse stared back at him. Sherlock let out a shaky breath as he began to read the report.

Sixty-four year old male, white. Automobile accident victim. Cause of death: internal bleeding. Suspect in custody.

He felt a strange emptiness as he studied the report. He did not recognize the handwriting and knew Lestrade must have passed on the case. Conflict of interest, he would have said. But that wasn't what was important.

_Suspect in custody._

His father had been killed.

He realized what this meeting with Lestrade was to be about.

His father was dead.

There were recordings of a vague vehicle description, a possible plate number, and out of focus red-light photos of the other driver's car. The investigating detective made a note that alcohol was possibly involved.

His father,_ killed_, possibly by a drunk driver.

This made everything feel so much worse. Before he felt like he could justify his bitterness, his indifference to this news. Now, knowing that his father was this kind of victim, he somehow felt as though there were a giant hole inside him…an emptiness that he couldn't even begin to explain.

Sherlock knew Lestrade would want to talk about this, but he just couldn't. He couldn't wrap his mind around the way he was feeling and _why_ he was feeling this way. He fled the office in a flash and was on the corner getting a taxi before anyone noticed.

He slid into the backseat and muttered his address. The cabbie looked curious about his behavior but did not reply as he sped forward. Sherlock took his mobile out of his pocket, but it simple trembled in his hand as he contemplated what to do. Before he could make up his mind, an alert sounded, and he pulled up the text:

"_I'm already dealing with this."_

Mycroft knew, he realized.

Letting out a deep sigh, he sunk into the seat of the car and closed his eyes. Mycroft would never let this go. No matter how much either one of them disliked their father, he would never let this go.

When the cab arrived at Bakerstreet, Sherlock paid the driver and stepped out of the car without speaking. He stormed into the flat but froze when he noticed John standing there, arms crossed.

"Mycroft kidnapped me today," John announced, "on my way to work. Made me late."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, unsure of what he wanted to do. He definitely did not want to give John any hints that something was wrong.

"He told me to keep an eye on you," John said. His flatmate glared at him for a moment, but then his face relaxed. "He sounded so desperate. He looked so _tired_. Any idea why?"

He didn't blink as he stared at John and ultimately decided no comment was probably best. Ignoring him, Sherlock tore off towards his bedroom. He knew this wouldn't make John any less suspicious, and he knew John was yelling after him. As soon as he stepped into his room he slammed the door and spun around, raising his hands to his forehead.

He had no idea what to do.

Another alert sounded on his phone.

"_Want to help?"_ Read Myroft's text.

Mycroft wanted his help in closing his father's case. He probably _needed_ his help. Panic rose within him as his heart rate doubled and breathing became out of control. He knew he couldn't get involved with this, knew he didn't want to, and the fact Mycroft would even dare to suggest-

Before he realized what he was doing his mobile was flying across the room until it crashed into the wall. He threw himself onto the bed and rolled over, staring at the remains of his phone.

His mind was reeling until it froze, fifteen years into the past. Sherlock closed his eyes as he desperately tried to block out the memory of the last time he saw his father. He raised a hand to his eye, still feeling the sting-

He knew John's fist was banging on the door, but he ignored him. His eyes flew open and landed on the second drawer of his bedside table. His heart was racing now, yearning for relief. He suddenly felt exhausted: a sensation he rarely had to deal with. John was shouting through the door, sounding entirely too panicked…though he knew deep down his flatmate's fears were justified. Instead of answering he closed his eyes, thinking this would all go away if he could only sleep.


	3. Day One: Tuesday Night

Warning: references to abuse. Mild violence.

* * *

Lestrade's case only took twenty-four hours to solve. His post-case crash came right on time, and by the time he returned to Baker Street his brain felt like mush. All he wanted was to lie down and stare at the ceiling for hours, alone.

Which was why his heart fell when he noticed Mycroft was in his sitting room. His brother was sitting in an armchair, umbrella bouncing against the floor.

"Out," Sherlock ordered as soon as he entered the room.

"Good to see you too," his brother muttered.

Mycroft didn't look up, which made Sherlock all the more curious. As he stepped closer he noticed how vacant his brother's eyes looked. It was as though he were a million miles away- or perhaps fifteen years. John was right, Mycroft not only looked tired but mentally exhausted. He suspected he hadn't slept since hearing the news about their father.

"I'm not talking to you," Sherlock declared.

"You are," Mycroft said, "sit." Sherlock continued to stare at him; Mycroft sighed. "Just give me five minutes of your time, Sherlock, and I'll be on my way."

Sherlock let out a drastic sigh and threw himself onto the couch. His eyes trailed to the ceiling, where they remained throughout the conversation.

"I would like to talk to you about the last day we saw Father."

"I'm not talking about this," Sherlock mumbled.

"Then _listen_!" Mycroft shot. His brother sighed and paused a moment before admitting: "That wasn't the last day that I saw him."

His heart skipped a beat as he took in what Mycroft said, but he refused to let his brother see the effect of his words.

"He came to me two years ago. He was…not in the best state of mind. He told me had been forced to sell his estate. Father was living out of a flat in Manchester."

"_Manchester?" _

"He found work there," Mycroft explained.

"He was _working_?" Sherlock laughed. "You mean he didn't try to hire someone to do his job for him?"

Mycroft didn't laugh back.

"He used the last of his wages for a train to London," Mycroft continued. He stopped to draw in a deep breath. "He wanted me to give him a job."

Sherlock was certain he had stopped breathing. He couldn't even begin to picture his father turning into the man Mycroft was talking about. Some of the last memories he had of his father were lectures about how crucial university was to his future. He very clearly laid out what kind of path he should take in life, and no matter how rough the past fifteen years had been, Sherlock always took pride in knowing he didn't follow that path.

"Did you?" Sherlock asked, his voice too hoarse.

"I called a few people," Mycroft admitted. "I'm not proud of it, but I knew it would get him off my back."

"Did you offer him any more money?"

Mycroft didn't answer.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, "Mycroft Holmes. Always there to save the day."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock leapt up from the couch.

"Is that why you're here?" He shot. "To brag about how you saved our father from his own failure? Congratulations, Mye. You saved our whole family, didn't you?"

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous! I never wanted to help him out after all he's done, but he's our _father_. I couldn't let him end up on the streets!"

Mycroft froze, falling silent immediately. Sherlock swirled around, his eyes fueled with anger.

"I didn't mean it like that," Mycroft whispered. "I only meant-"

"I'm sorry that I made you feel so guilty-"

"Sherlock, stop it!"

"Next time I'm going through a rough patch, I'll work harder to make sure I'm not inconveniencing you."

"You didn't want my help!" Mycroft exclaimed, jumping to his feet. They were only inches away now, their eyes glued to each other in anger. "I still don't know how father ended up the way he did, but-"

"The apple must not fall far from the tree," Sherlock said, his voice low and cold. "Is that what you want to say? That you're sorry he turned into me? Or rather, perhaps I turned into him."

"No. I thought you might be curious about his case...and his will."

"So you assumed I was after his money?" Sherlock said, astounded. "Mycroft, I wouldn't take his money if it was falling at my feet from the sky. I don't want his money. I don't want to go to his funeral. I don't want to stand here, listening to you trying to make me feel sorry for a man who couldn't bother to remember he had second son."

"He wasn't exactly good to me, either."

Sherlock was surprised to hear Mycroft's voice cracked. His brothers' eyes shot to the floor as he ran a hand over his head, as though figuring out how he could take back what he just admitted.

"You never really knew him, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "You could never know how much of a disappointment he was. Do you know how much it killed me, to see him treat you the way he did?"

Sherlock didn't reply for a moment as he wondered if he had the guts to ask his brother what he really wanted to ask; what he had always wanted to ask.

"Did he ever hit you?"

He spoke so quietly he wasn't sure he actually said anything. He knew he did when Mycroft's eyes closed and his face contorted into pain. Sherlock was shocked when his brother raised his hands against his eyes- pushing back tears, he realized.

"The day Mother died, I didn't know how I was going to go on. And I felt so badly for you…you were only twelve. I always felt like you were cheated out of a childhood. It's no wonder the way you ended up."

Mycroft stopped, looking horrified as he realized what he said, but Sherlock only laughed.

"Thanks, Mye," he muttered. He drew in a deep breath as his eyes darted around the room; he realized that he himself was having a heart time keeping his emotions at bay. "Did he ask about me, when he came and saw you?"

When Mycroft remained silent, he knew his answer. Sherlock closed his eyes in an attempt to hide the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he should feel nothing upon hearing this but somehow, _somehow_ it just fueled his anger even more. Somehow, he felt more hurt than ever.

"Did I do something wrong, Mycroft?" He asked quietly.

He was terrified to hear his own voice break. It was something he had always wondered, when he was younger. Even now, as an adult he struggled with figuring out why his life ended up the way it did. He knew why he made some of his choices, even the bad ones, but he always couldn't help but to wonder if there was a reason he always ended up on the darker side of things. It was like he was cursed to have this life, from so early on.

"If it's any consolation, I always felt Mother loved you more than she did me," Mycroft replied. "It would have broken her heart to know the money she saved for your university was being used to pay for rehab."

He felt as though something cold and metal were trapped in his heart. His throat felt dry, as though drops of sand lined the back of his mouth.

"I'm sure she would have been so proud of _you,"_ Sherlock shot. "How was I ever supposed to compare to the great Mycroft Holmes? You always had to outshine me. The spotlight was never enough for you."

Sherlock wasn't sure where this was coming from, but once he started he found it hard to stop. Of course Mycroft would drag their mother into this. Their mother- the one person in his family Sherlock never felt ashamed to be connected to. Some days as a teenager he was almost grateful she wasn't there to see the kind of family they turned into- and he was most certainly relieved she would never know how he turned out. This was something he struggled with more than Mycroft would ever know.

"Did I ruin everything for you, then?" He said. "I suppose it would have been so much better if you were an only child. Isn't that what you always dreamed of?"

"You're being completely irrational-"

"Mummy would have been so proud of you, Mycroft, knowing who you are now," he shot, his eyes so cold it was though they might break into pieces of ice. "If you're so sorry about Father, why didn't you do anything about it then? You didn't seem so sorry when you left for university and waltzed down the path to success. You didn't seem so sorry when you were buying your first home when you were just twenty-three or when you hardly came home except for Christmas. You waited far too late to save me, Mycroft, so forgive me if I hesitate to break out into tears over your kindness."

"Sherlock-"

Mycroft held up his hand, as though he were a teacher telling him off for speaking out of turn.

"Don't you _dare_ stand here and talk about how sorry you are," Sherlock finished,

Despite his warning, Sherlock was aware his eyes were glistening with tears. His entire body was shaking. Mycroft gazed at him, looking so much like his father, so much like he just pitied him, that when he opened his mouth to speak Sherlock's fist went flying through the air.

He stopped as soon as his hand scraped Mycroft's jaw. His breathing was harsh and shallow. His hand hung in mid-air, waiting to be told what to do next. Suddenly his outburst seemed too surreal. He knew he didn't truly mean half of what he just said, but it was like he knew no other way to express what he was feeling.

Not that he had any idea what it was he was feeling.

Mycroft's hand moved forward, and for a split moment Sherlock thought his brother might hit him back. On instinct he grabbed Mycroft's fist, forcing him back until he shoved him to the ground. He collapsed on top his brother, too weak from the frustration and anger rushing through him to stand on his own feet.

"Going to hit me again?" Mycroft spat. "Does that solve your problems?"

Sherlock told himself not to, but he again found his fist shooting forward, this time knocking against his brother's eye. Mycroft only smirked, and when Sherlock tried to hit him again he grabbed his hand. Sherlock found himself being forced to roll underneath him, and as soon as Mycroft was on top of him he threw his hands over his face, blocking the hit that never came.

"Hey!" Sherlock was shocked to hear John's voice cry out. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

He pried an eye open as he felt Mycroft being pulled away from him. His brother straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, hiding all traces of the fight- save for the bloodied lip and blackening eye. Sherlock simply glared at him, too ashamed to admit that when Mycroft was on top of him he suddenly felt sixteen again. He felt afraid.

"For god's sake you two are adults!" John exclaimed. His eyes landed on Sherlock, and he swallowed nervously, hoping his flatmate couldn't see through him and tell what was really going through his mind. "Or at least I thought one of you was."

"Just a little sibling rivalry," Mycroft replied.

Mycroft had that all-knowing look in his eye, and Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized his brother must have sensed his fear. He was relieved when Mycroft didn't say anything about it.

"Thursday morning, Sherlock," Mycroft said, without taking his eyes off him. A shiver went down his spine just at the thought of what Mycroft was talking about. "Be there. You'll never hear the end of it if you aren't."

Sherlock let out a few deep breaths, contemplating what to do. He couldn't stay here, with John asking him even more questions. He couldn't find an explanation for anything he just did, which was almost as confusing as the emotions running through him. He felt out of control.

So he did the only thing he knew to do.

He ignored his brother's angry glares, ignored hearing John mumble:

"And you wanted _me_ to keep an eye on him."

He fled from the flat. Once he was outside he ran, and he kept running for miles, until he stumbled across the only thing he knew would help.


	4. Day Two: Wednesday

Warnings: references to drug use

* * *

The tapping of someone's finger against his face caught his attention, but as he tried to fight his way out of the darkness something pulled him back. The sensation made him feel trapped, and the feeling of panic was so overwhelming he thought he might fall back into the darkness completely.

His only relief was the sound of someone calling his name. The tapping turned into a hand patting gently against his cheek as the voice grew louder. Ever so slowly light came back into the world. His eyes opened painfully, and the blurry figure of someone in blue scrubs greeted him.

"Am I in a hospital?" Sherlock mumbled.

"No."

Sherlock closed his eyes, too ashamed to meet the eyes of John Watson.

"You're on the floor, in Baker Street," John added. The bitterness in his voice was uncanny. "Where you collapsed, twenty minutes ago. I've been trying to wake you."

Sherlock tried to move his head, but his head felt heavy and his skin, cold and clammy. He swallowed and tried to talk, but a sour bile threatened to escape instead.

"Okay, let's get you to the toilet," John said.

His head spun as he was dragged across the floor. He couldn't help it as he grabbed at the floor with his palm and threw up what little was in his stomach. John didn't say anything as he helped him up off the floor.

The next thing he knew he was seated on the edge of the tub, and a warm, damp, towel brushed across his forehead.

"You're not…hurt, are you?" John asked, gazing at him in concern.

Sherlock replied by being sick once again. The resulting smell made him even more nauseous than before. He tried to say something, but his words came out as mumbling nonsense.

"Sherlock, look at me."

He obeyed. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind John, and he stiffened when he saw his blood-red eyes and a face so pale he nearly looked transparent.

"Shit," John simply muttered. He ran a hand over his face, and Sherlock felt awful when he saw how tired his flatmate already look. He wanted to tell him to leave him alone, to not worry, but he only was sick again.

A comforting hand rested on his back. Although his head still spun, he at least felt somewhat better…which must have been because he was now completely empty of everything he had eaten in the past couple of days.

"I'll get you some water," John said. "Just…breathe, try to relax."

Sherlock nodded. As soon as John stepped out he began shivering; he wrapped his arms around himself as he fought to remember the last few hours of his life. Memories came to him in flashes, as recollections of nightmares. He subconsciously raised a hand to his cheek-

"Are you sure you aren't hurt?"

Sherlock looked up to see John frozen in the doorway, glass of water in one hand and a blanket in the other.

"No, I wasn't," he said.

His voice sounded cold and icy, and his words bounced back to him as echoes. John placed the blanket around his shoulders and forced the glass of water against his lips. He tried to drink some of the cool liquid, but the mix of water against the sour taste that lingered in the back of his throat was sickening.

"Take it easy," John said, "it's okay."

Sherlock nodded, and John handed him the glace. He accepted it, silently.

"It's the drugs, isn't it?" John whispered. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor, I know the signs."

He closed his eyes; between feeling too ill and too ashamed he couldn't bring himself to answer.

"Where did you get them?" John asked; he sounded more panicked now. "Are they in the flat?"

"No," Sherlock muttered, "Homeless Network."

John sighed and looked away. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was going to yell at him or just walk away. He was shocked when John managed to remain calm.

"Look, you're in for a long night," John said, "I'm sure the dread of it is just making this worse. Just…Sherlock…why? You've been wondering around for the past two days like you're just in a daze. I can't be sure you're entirely…here."

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. He knew there could be no more hiding from John; he owed him the truth.

"My father died."

The whispered words were more painful to take in than ever. It was difficult to hear himself say it. He knew this made everything so much more real. The pain that contorted on John's face made him feel even more ill.

"Oh my god…"

"Don't," Sherlock interrupted. "I…I had a terrible relationship with my father."

A hint of understanding appeared as John's eyes softened.

"I'm sorry," John whispered. "Sherlock…despite what might have happened to you, death is hard to deal with. It's just so…it's shocking, and it's final. It makes you realize there are so many things you wish you could have said or done…things you never in a million years would have thought of. I don't know what happened, but clearly you're not sure how to deal with it. And that's okay. Your father might have died, but it doesn't mean you have to make amends with everything in your life right now."

Sherlock nodded, but he couldn't find the words to reply. Ever since seeing Mycroft in his flat he felt like time was ticking out of control. He felt like he wasn't sure what life would be like, once his father's body was placed into the ground. And maybe John was right…he was becoming obsessed with figuring everything out before that moment.

"I'm going to have to call Lestrade," John said, "to do a drugs bust. But I'll only ask for him-"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice so hoarse he broke out into a series of coughs. "Lestrade and I…I can't, I can't lose his trust again."

He knew that was a crappy thing to say. He knew he wasn't in the position to be asking for favors. But somehow, John seemed to understand.

"Fine," John said, "then you stay in here while I search the place."

He stood, but stopped before leaving the room.

"I wish you told me before," John admitted. "Sherlock…I just forget that I still don't really know you. I just…I'm angry, I am. And I don't understand. But I don't know what you're going through. I just know that…you don't deserve this. You can't do this to yourself. You could have killed yourself tonight. I don't know what kind of _friends_ you think you have in the Homeless Network, but you could have killed yourself. I'm a doctor, I can look at you and know exactly what you did and how much. You _scare_ me, Sherlock. I know you won't remember much of this speech by the morning, but just…I just…"

He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, looking too overwhelmed to put together any more words. Instead he turned, leaving him alone.

"John!" Sherlock found himself shouting. His flatmate turned around, surprised. "You won't find anything in the flat. I swear."

John nodded, looking at least a little relieved. He was about to turn around again, but suddenly Sherlock felt an overwhelming desire to not be alone. Of course he couldn't find the words to say it. Instead, he said what he had secretly been hoping for all week.

"John…the funeral, it's tomorrow morning. Will you come with me?"

A sad smile crossed John's face.

"Of course."

His flatmate turned around to do what Sherlock knew he had to.

As he was left sitting on the edge of the tub he had never felt so alone. He had never felt so angry at himself or so weak. Lowering himself to the floor, he set his eyes on the sink cabinet. He was too afraid to close them. He hadn't felt this helpless in so long…and he knew all of this didn't make anything better.

He only felt worse.


	5. Day Three: Thursday

Warnings: references to drug use

* * *

This was it.

Funeral Day.

Somehow, Thursday seemed so far away Sunday night. Now that the funeral was less than a few hours- no, less than a half hour- away, everything felt too real.

He and John took a cab from the train station to the funeral home. They remained silent for the first part of their journey, for which Sherlock was grateful. As they approached the town he noticed John's eyes scanning the buildings, the churches, the people- full of curiosity.

"I didn't know you were from Devon," John announced.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath as his own eyes fell over the familiar sites: the church he was dragged to as a child, the school building he was confined to for eighteen years.

"I didn't stay for long," Sherlock whispered. John looked over at him, curious, and Sherlock knew he owed him an explanation. "John, I haven't seen any of my…family in fifteen years. Besides Mycroft, I mean. If any of them are here today, they won't be too happy to see me. If they say anything just…just ignore them."

"They won't say anything at your father's funeral."

Sherlock let out a hollow, painful, laugh.

"You don't know my family."

When the cab slowed to a stop the driver let them out without a word and refused the money John offered him.

"Sorry about your father," the driver muttered.

Sherlock and John looked at each other but didn't reply. The driver's accent forced him into a wave of memories of the people of the town. Their backs were turned to the cemetery, and Sherlock dreaded moving. His eyes followed the cab until it was out of sight, and once it was gone he felt so trapped it was almost claustrophobic.

"Are you ready?" John asked, quietly.

"No."

John didn't reply, and neither moved. At last Sherlock sighed and turned his head.

He was shocked to see his brother, standing alone in front of an opened grave. A casket set beside it; Sherlock swallowed when he remember what was inside.

John placed a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock didn't say anything. He simply nodded and began walking forward. When they arrived at the gravesite they stood silently beside Mycroft for a moment, until his brother finally spoke:

"It was in his will to not have a service."

"He must have known no one would want to talk about him."

Mycroft didn't reply. For whatever reason, it always made his brother feel uncomfortable to talk about their father- even if he disliked him too.

Sherlock stole a glance towards his brother, and he was surprised to feel pain as he saw how hollow his eyes looked. Mycroft stared at the grave before him with a piercing glare, and when the casket was raised above the grave he tensed. Sherlock was certain that his brother might shout something, but he remained silent. The preacher looked between the two of them.

"Would either of you like to say anything?" He asked.

Both brothers stayed silent. Sherlock knew John was glancing his way, but Sherlock didn't dare take his eyes from the ground.

When neither replied, the preacher began. Sherlock didn't hear a word he said. His mind was instead in the past, fifteen years ago. His heart must have been pounding so fiercely that John heard it; he caught sight of his friend's warning glare. He hid his trembling hands in his pocket and kept his eyes glued to his feet.

Suddenly, he wished he hadn't come. He searched his mind for a palace to hide, but it seemed every hallway he ran through led him to the same, horrible, place.

He closed his eyes to fight the overwhelming emotions that surged through him.

Guilt plagued him more than anything, and he wanted nothing more than the feeling to go away. He had no idea why he felt guilty; he didn't want to.

He felt a hand being placed on his shoulder once again. When he looked up John nodded, acknowledging his sympathy. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he became painfully aware that he was drawing the attention of Mycroft and the preacher.

In his mind he was drawing closer and closer to an all-too familiar door, but he couldn't go through. _He wouldn't._ Not again.

He drew in a shaky breath…and broke into a run.

No one called after him as he turned and fled as fast as he could through the cemetery. He knew he was being childish; he knew what he was doing, or thinking, made no sense. But he kept running.

He ran until he reached the edge of the cemetery, where the forest met the last row of the graves. It felt like air was trapped in his lungs. He collapsed beneath a tree, resting his back against the trunk as he breathed out raspy gasps of air.

He was _sobbing_.

"Sherlock?"

His head was hidden in the arms wrapped around his knees. He refused to look up, horrified at the thought of John seeing him like this.

"Sherlock…" John's voice fell.

Letting out a deep sigh, he tried to contain his emotions, but it was too much. It was as though every ounce of guilt, anger, self-pity, hatred, shame- all of the emotions bottled up for so long, found their way out.

"Sherlock, you've got to go back," John said.

Sherlock cringed at the pity in his words.

"I can't," Sherlock whispered, voice shaking. He gently lifted his head; dizziness forced his eyes closed again as he was greeted by the sunlight. He rubbed a hand over his face, forcing the tears away. "Sorry, John…I'm a mess."

"It's your father's funeral," John replied, "it would be a little weird if you weren't a mess."

Sherlock let out a quiet laugh, but he still couldn't bring himself to look up at his flatmate.

"I can't go back," Sherlock continued, "I can't do this. I don't know why I came. I can't face this, I can't deal with this. It's like…like…"

"Everything in your past, coming back to haunt you at once?"

At last Sherlock looked up, stunned. John sat down next to him. He gazed at the forest before them, contemplating his words carefully before explaining:

"That's how I felt at my father's funeral. He…wasn't the best. Not the worst but not the best. He didn't really get bad until Harry became a teenager. She was…a rebel, for lack of a better word. He didn't approve of anything she did. Anyone she dated…"

"I know what you're getting at," Sherlock said, hoping that would make it easier for him.

A sad smile crossed John's face.

"Yeah, well he didn't make life very easy for her, and I didn't like that. It kind of ruined my relationship with him. He died right before I went into the army."

"I never knew that," Sherlock said quietly.

"You never asked," John said, "but that's okay, you didn't know to. Point is…standing there, surrounded by my insane family, seeing how torn Harry was- despite all he said to her…it just made me realize so much about my life. So…I don't know what it is that you're running from, but maybe it's not catching up to you now because as soon as his body goes into the ground the clock stops ticking. Maybe it's because deep down, you want to move on. Now you can."

As John stopped talking Sherlock realized that, thankfully, the tears sopped. He could still feel their tracks on his cheek. His head felt heavy, exhausted from all this thinking and worrying.

But as he considered John's words, his mind began to clear. Suddenly the air felt a bit cooler, and it felt easier to breathe. He wanted it all to go away, but not in vein.

"I was sixteen when I tried drugs for the first time," Sherlock admitted. "It wasn't much more than your usual teenage experimenting- not that that's an excuse. I wasn't an addict yet." He swallowed, forcing back the sick feeling that rose within him as he said the last word. "But my father found out. Like most parents would have been, he was furious. At first he just accepted that I was being a stupid teenager. But then…my life started to spin out of control. I still can't explain it. Mycroft had graduated from university and was establishing his own life. He gladly left me behind. It was just me and my father and, frankly we're both lucky we didn't end up murdering one another. That was actually the very first time I met Lestrade. A domestic disturbance call was made to our home."

John looked panicked, just at hearing the words- as though he knew exactly what he meant.

"Domestic disturbance?" John repeated. "What happened?"

Sherlock's fingers began tapping subconsciously against his knee. He looked away, focusing in on a bird which had just landed on a nearby tree. He wasn't sure if he wanted to continue the conversation. Somehow, he managed to forget that not too far away Mycroft was attending their father's funeral.

"Nothing happened," he lied. John didn't reply, and he knew he didn't believe him. "At least that's what I've been telling myself for seventeen years. Anyway the police scared him, I think. He wasn't so bad for a while. Mycroft couldn't be bothered…I tried calling him, once or twice, when things got too bad. But he was off climbing the ladder to the top of the British government. He'd call back, apologize, say he was just busy…but by then I'd convinced myself that everything was alright. That things were normal. I decided the best way to avoid my father was to get out of the house as much as possible, but while trying to do that, I ended up with a bad crowd. I know that sounds cliché and anti-climatic."

"No," John admitted, his voice hardly a whisper.

Sherlock tensed, realizing how startled John sounded. Of course; he wasn't expected any of this.

"It wasn't long before I got bored of them and ended up on my own again," Sherlock said. "I had a couple of more run-ins with Lestrade…not for anything major."

John snorted.

"'Course not," he replied.

"I knew what my father would do if he ever knew the trouble I found myself in," Sherlock admitted. "Luckily Mycroft made up for his absence by being able to keep a secret."

"_Mycroft_ kept your delinquency a secret?" John said.

Sherlock smirked.

"My brother hasn't always been tailored suits and umbrellas. There was a time before the government corrupted him. He had money and a nice flat in London. He started to let me stay over. I hated it, but at least it was better than being at home. He was willing to give me a chance if I was willing to turn my life around a bit. But that didn't last for long."

"It's Mycroft," John offered, "I can't imagine anyone would be able to live with him for long."

A sad smile crossed Sherlock's face.

"Yeah, well my _delinquency_ didn't amuse him for long," Sherlock said. "Eventually my brother started doing more work abroad. He sent me back home; he was terrified of me getting into trouble while he was gone."

John looked at him, but Sherlock desperately avoided making eye contact.

"What happened while he was gone?"

"Life got a lot worse," Sherlock whispered. He stopped, physically unable to continue his story for a moment. "Now that I look back, he must have been envious of Mycroft's success. He never knew what kind of money Mycroft was making. He used to get angry, when he realized my brother was helping me out. I guess he didn't like anyone to realize what a terrible parent he was. He and Mycroft had a major falling out, one year at Christmas. Mycroft nearly got his head chopped off by a plate my father threw at him…and Mycroft all but destroyed my father's favorite painting by throwing a glass of wine at it. It was quite amusing, really. Until the part where Mycroft stormed out, said a string of words I'm sure he'd never admit to saying, and vowed to never step foot inside the house again."

"_Mycroft_ did that?"

Sherlock paled, and his eyes closed as the memory came back to him: the broken glass, the screams that bounced off the wall, the Christmas music playing on the radio, clashing with the scene playing before his eyes.

"He was only twenty-five at the time," Sherlock said. "He kept his word. I didn't see him for months. He called me once, to say got hurt while working out in the field, but I never did bother to tell my father. Sometimes I was convinced he forgot he had another son…and soon it felt like he forgot I was there as well. I suppose, looking back, that I should have seen all the signs of what he was becoming. But I was young, and stupid, and hopeful. I mainly kept my head down. Meanwhile everyone else was making their university plans and contemplating careers, and I didn't have the faintest idea of what I wanted to do with my life."

John grinned.

"I suppose 'consulting detective' wasn't on the table yet?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock said. "I…I kind of fell back into my old habits, and my father found out. I've never heard someone shout as loudly as he did. His main argument was that _this_ is what I was wasting his money on. Considering the amount of money my family had, he certainly hated giving any of it to me. For a while he just…ignored that I was even there. It was like I was an inconvenience to him. Then he found out that I stopped going to school, which was really only because it was stupid-"

John laughed.

"Well we all thought school was stupid," he said, "but we still went."

"Yeah, well I didn't," Sherlock shot. "I was far ahead of the other students."

"Of course you were.

"I decided university would be just as useless," he continued. "When I told my father this…he lost it. Turns out he did still know I was around. He had just given up hope I would turn into anything worth remembering."

"Sherlock-"

"By that time I had stopped calling my brother for help," he said. "I _don't _call Mycroft for help."

"Right, except for when you need clearance for top-secret buildings."

"Yes, except for important stuff," Sherlock agreed. "So when I called him, asking if I could stay with him again…I sincerely thought…I just knew…"

_I was in trouble,_ he wanted to say, but couldn't.

"What did Mycroft say?"

Sherlock stared at the ground beneath his feet. He considered getting up and running away again, but he knew that if he could at least get the last part of this story out, he have made some progress.

"I was too late."

Both he and John looked up, shocked to see Mycroft standing above them. Their eyes met, and though Sherlock immediately felt regret for anything he said about his brother he could see the turmoil in Mycroft's on eyes.

"We're talking," John shot. "You had your chance to listen."

"I know," Mycroft whispered. Their eyes remained connected. Sherlock felt sick again. "Sherlock…"

He got to his feet, desperate to get away. Suddenly the cemetery felt claustrophobic again. The trees, the graves, the breeze were all closing in on him.

"Sherlock, no!" John exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

He grabbed his arm, but Sherlock jerked away. They glared at each other.

"Just…forget I said anything, alright?" Sherlock said.

He stormed away, turning around just in time as the tears threatened to surface again. He couldn't hear what John said to Mycroft, but judging by his brother's silence his words got to him.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he wiped away at the damp, pale, skin and wet tears. All he wanted was to be back at Baker Street, locked in his room. Talking to John was a terrible idea…his flatmate would digest his story for weeks, picking apart every detail which might require attention. He'd want him to elaborate; he'd never let him forget.

"Sherlock _stop_."

He was horrified to hear John's command. Instead of obeying he began walking faster- until a hand grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around. When their eye's met Sherlock's were stained with tears. John didn't look furious, but concerned, and it sickened him to see that.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. "I don't know what got into me. I shouldn't have…I know you don't-"

"It's okay," John said carefully, as though he might break him by speaking any more forcefully. "You don't have to tell me what happened if you're not ready."

"That shouldn't matter," Sherlock said, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Don't you see, John? I'm going mad."

"No you're not-"

"Why am I caring?" He said, laughing uneasily. John looked disturbed. "I don't even know why I came here, I really don't. Christ…why can't I deal with this?"

He hid his head in his hands, letting out a muffled scream of frustration.

"Death is never easy to deal with," John offered. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor, I see it all the time. People lose loved ones, and it just throws their life completely off balance. Things that you never would have thought meant anything begin to surface again."

"But that doesn't happen _to me_."

"Last I checked you're still human," John said. "Can I ask…have you ever lost someone close to you before?"

Sherlock drew in a few deep breaths as he glared at John.

"My mother died when I was thirteen," he admitted.

John's eyes widened in panic.

"Jesus, Sherlock-"

"It's fine, it has nothing to do with this."

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and pulled his arms closed too him. Suddenly everything turned cold; he shuddered in the wind.

"Tell me about her," John said quietly.

His eyes trailed away, landing on a row of graves nearby. He stiffened as he remembered his mother's funeral and how confused he was. Thirteen seemed so long ago…

"She's one of the only people that ever gave me a chance," Sherlock admitted. "She loved giving people second chances. She was far too nice for this world. She was perfectly normal; perfectly ordinary. She didn't deserve…"

His voice fell as he struggled not to say _me_.

"Didn't deserve what?" John prompted.

"This," Sherlock replied. "All of this. She didn't deserve a husband who never fully appreciated her or a son that just threw his life away…"

"Are we talking about Mycroft again?" John asked, offering him a small smile.

Sherlock appreciated the attempt at comic relief but shook his head.

"She always told Mycroft he worked too hard," he said. "She used to tell him that he didn't have anything to prove to her. When she died…he lost it a bit."

"And what did you do?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Hid in my room," he admitted. "Refused to talk to anyone…not that there was much of that going on. It was all downhill from there. I can't imagine what she would think of me now…god the thought of that just…"

_Sickens me,_ he admitted to himself.

"Are you sure that has nothing to do with this?" John said. "I mean, you've lost both of your parents-"

"Yes, I'm an orphan, thanks for the reminder."

He closed his mouth, biting his lip as soon as he realized he said that out loud. John raised an eyebrow, as though that proved his point.

"I just hate him so much," he admitted. "But what I hate even more…"

"Is that you can never change it," John finished. Sherlock looked at him, in surprise. "Even if you were convinced you would never want to, now you can't. That part of your life is done. Putting his body into the ground, it's the equivalent of closing the book of your childhood. And you're not sure what's next. That's what's bothering you. But like I said before, that's irrelevant. It's time to start processing what happened to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He trembled ever so slightly. He knew that John was getting somewhere; his analysis hit a little too close to home. It wasn't something he wanted to contemplate while standing in the middle of a cemetery.

"Can we just go?" He asked.

John nodded.

"Sure," he replied, "let's find a hotel. Maybe somewhere to eat. Have you even eaten this week?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I mean go back. To Baker Street."

"Sherlock…the next train to London isn't even for another couple of hours."

Sherlock's eyes were peeled to the ground as he dug his foot into the dirt, littering his shoes with mud as he kicked at the grass.

"Good," he mumbled, "gives me time to think."

* * *

Author's Note: The next chapter will most likely be the last, and it will serve as an epilogue. I'm contemplating writing a prequel to this, though. I think it would be interesting to explore more into the past of Sherlock and Mycroft. What do you think?


	6. Epilogue: Friday

_Epilogue: Friday_

Sherlock woke up to a pounding head and a heart that was beating way too fast. It took him a few moments to regain his senses and realize he was only on the couch in Baker Street. He let out a few deep breaths before lying down again. His eyes trailed to the ceiling, still wide with the horror of his nightmare.

"Are you alright?"

He threw an arm over his face, wiping the sweat away. Sherlock didn't reply as John crossed over to his side of the room. Dressed for work and carrying a mug of tea, John made it obvious that it was morning now.

"I'm pretty sure I heard you scream in your sleep last night," John said, "either that or there was another spider in here."

"It was insanely too big," Sherlock muttered. "They shouldn't be allowed to sneak up on you like that."

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"Fine," Sherlock lied.

He would be more fine if he didn't have to suffer through the same nightmare each night. He didn't understand: the nightmares hadn't bothered him for _years_…

"Well I'm off to work," John said, "are you going to be okay here on your own?"

Sherlock blinked away the remaining traces of sleep from his eye and glanced around the room. The sun was only just rising beyond the curtains; an early shift for John, then.

"Yeah, of course," Sherlock said, "I'm not a child."

John sighed.

"Right," he replied. He turned to leave, but stopped before he reached the staircase. "Mycroft's been calling me by the way, to check up on you. About fifteen times."

Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide in panic. Surely he didn't tell Mycroft about the screaming…

"I told him you'd call, first thing in the morning."

With that John left, and Sherlock groaned. He knew why John would say that- _not calling_ would signal to Mycroft that there was definitely something wrong.

He glanced at his phone- it was still early enough. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

As he stood on his brother's doorstep he couldn't help but to wonder when the weather had turned so cold. He shuddered in his light jacket and stuffed his freezing hands in his pockets. The sun had only just fully risen, and the streets were busy with people rushing about to work. The cab driver didn't seem too pleased with the task of driving him to the outskirts of the city, but Sherlock didn't care.

He wasn't too pleased to be going.

After a third ring of the bell the door finally opened. His brother froze, his hand rested on the doorknob.

"Hey," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper.

Mycroft opened the door wider, revealing a dimly lighted entry-way.

"Would you like to come in?" Mycroft asked. "It's freezing out here."

Sherlock nodded and stepped inside. He was immediately grateful for the warmth of his brother's home.

"It's been a long time since you've come over," Mycroft said. "I was about to sit down to eat- would you like some breakfast?"

Sherlock shook his head, but Mycroft insisted:

"You're eating."

Five minutes later he was picking at a plate of toast. It was all he could do to not completely regret going there.

"Eat," Mycroft ordered, "you obviously haven't all week."

"I have."

"Stop lying."

He picked up a piece of toast and took a bite of it, just to get Mycroft to stop pestering him. An ill feeling built up within him as the bread crumbled in the back of his throat. He forced himself to swallow.

"Trouble sleeping?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock glanced up, examining the dark circles under his brother's eyes and the way he clutched at his tea mug, as though he were afraid his trembling fingers might dropped it. The way he leaned forward onto on to his elbows, breaking each of his own rules of table manners.

"I could ask you the same."

His brother's eyes narrowed, unamused, and Sherlock sighed.

"I've been having nightmares," he admitted, his voice hardly audible.

Mycroft studied his mug for a moment, before replying:

"It's not unusual to have trouble sleeping when you learn of the death someone close to you…even if you did not have much of a relationship with that someone."

"No…" Sherlock swallowed again, forcing the words out, "the dreams are about that night."

His brother paused again as a dark sadness settle into his eyes. Sherlock had to look away. All of the emotions that attacked him the day of the funeral were threatening to return. They had been crawling around in the deepest depths of his mind since returning to Baker Street.

"My life changed the night you turned up on my doorstep," Mycroft admitted quietly, "but yours must have changed long before that. No, I haven't been sleeping lately. I haven't for a long time."

"Mycroft-"

"Sherlock, listen to me- look at me." He obeyed, and he was shocked to see how desperate his brother looked. "I was a terrible son and an even worse brother. When Mother died I felt so_ sorry _for myself. Between her death and Father turning into…who he was, I wasn't sure how I was going to be able to go on. I was only twenty…but you were only thirteen. And I wasn't there. I never asked, I never thought-"

"Mycroft-"

"No Sherlock, listen!" Mycroft exclaimed. Sherlock jumped, and Mycroft fell silent. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't sit here and pretend like you weren't the perfect son," Sherlock warned. "When things got in your way you knew exactly what to do to still get your way."

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft begged. "I know you didn't have a fair shot at a proper childhood, and sometimes I think that if you had perhaps-"

"Perhaps what?" Sherlock challenged. "Perhaps I wouldn't have turned into a drug addict? Perhaps I would be_ normal_?"

"Perhaps things wouldn't have ended so badly between us."

His brother's eyes fell shut, as though he were too ashamed to look at him. A pang of guilt kicked at his side, and he immediately regretted his previous outburst.

"When I started getting those calls from you, it scared me," Mycroft whispered. "I was the only family left that you could have possibly trusted, and I didn't have a clue what to do. Sometimes I turned you away just because I was terrified of saying the wrong thing or making everything worse. I never meant to abandon you. I was a coward, and selfish, and I…"

His words trailed off into silence, and Sherlock couldn't help but to feel sorry for him.

"Don't say that," Sherlock said, "you went out and managed to climb out of that…that _horror_. Don't feel sorry for yourself because you did something with your life."

A sad smile crossed his brother's face.

"Yet you still hate me for it," he stated softly.

"I'm not very strong, Mycroft," he admitted, "I pretend to be. I try to be. But back then, especially back then, the only thing I knew to do was run away. I thought that would solve all my problems."

"It just wasn't very fair, was it?" Mycroft said. "We're seven years a part, but sometimes we might as well be living in completely different worlds. If I stayed-"

"Then your life would have been ruined too," Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked at him, but Sherlock kept his eyes peeled to his half-empty plate. He took a drink of his now-cold tea and his stomach churned, fighting the command to actually have to digest something.

"When I broke ties with Father, I didn't mean that I was breaking ties with you," Mycroft said.

"I was afraid you did," Sherlock whispered.

He hid his face in the palm of his hand. He couldn't remember ever having this in-depth of a conversation with his brother, except perhaps during those darkness moments of his life during the withdrawals he long-since deleted from his memory. Talking like this seemed to demand a different kind of energy from him, one that left him feeling so _exhausted_. So confused, because up until now he was able to tell himself none of this mattered.

"I'm sorry." As his brother spoke this time, his voice broke. "I was all that you had left, and I should have been there. I should have listened, I should have _done something_."

"You did do something. You saved yourself."

"That's not what I mean-"

"I was far beyond saving," Sherlock said. "I was so beyond…"

He stopped. His throat suddenly closed up, refusing to admit any more of what was going through his mind. A familiar tremor returned to his hands, instantly catching the attention of his brother.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked.

"Mye…" He closed his eyes, ashamed of the tears that threatened to fall as the old nickname slipped out of him.

Instead of finishing, he gently began to roll up his shirtsleeve. A series of ancient, white scars greeted him, along with a trail of angry new ones. He heard Mycroft struggled to breathe.

"When?" Mycroft whispered, his eyes cold and dark.

"A couple of nights ago," he sounded so desperately ashamed that his words could hardly be heard. "John was there, after. He looked after me."

"Well thank God for John Watson, then."

"Mycroft-"

He realized he had sincerely hoped that somehow, his brother would understand. That somehow this conversation had woken some sort of sympathy within him. Apparently, he was wrong. He squeezed his fist and let his arm rest on the table.

"It's not you Mycroft, it's me," he finally continued. "I can't move on, I can't figure out what's going on with me. God, it's so _pathetic_."

"Yes, pathetic is a good word to use right now."

"Mycroft!"

"I didn't mean that," Mycroft sighed.

"You did," Sherlock mumbled, "it's alright. It's the truth."

Mycroft studied him for a moment. His wondering eyes made him feel uncomfortable, as Sherlock knew his brother was picking apart each everything he was hiding.

"You came to the funeral," Mycroft stated.

"Like you said…I wouldn't have heard the end of it if I didn't."

"But that's not why you came?"

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh.

"Does it really matter, Mycroft?"

His brother shrugged.

"I'm just curious," he replied. "John agreed to come too, then?"

"He was there, wasn't he?"

A long moment of silence passed between them. The plate of food before him was now cold, and his stomach was once again forming into knots of pain. He felt out of place, restless, as he continued to linger in his brother's house.

But just as he thought of leaving, he realized there was one crucial issue they had both been avoiding. Mycroft seemed to read his mind.

"They haven't caught him," Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock nodded, unsure of what to think- or if he should even care.

"I assumed you would have taken this into your own hands by now."

"Then you assumed wrong."

The room fell silent once again, and Sherlock understood: Mycroft didn't want to be any more a part of this than he did.

"Does it bother you?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not sure."

The soft, shy tone of his voice told Sherlock his brother was had been just as upset about this throughout the week as he had.

"Tell me what I'm supposed to feel, Mycroft," Sherlock said, with an empty laugh. "Because I'm just very confused right now."

"I've been wanting to say that to someone all week," Mycroft admitted, "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't have the answer. But I do know this is the first time you've sat in my kitchen in five years. We were the only two people at our Father's funeral…somehow, I feel like we've done something right."

Sherlock didn't reply; he didn't feel up letting his brother down this time. He didn't feel the same.

"Come on," Mycroft said, suddenly standing up, "I have something to show you."

He allowed Mycroft to lead him into the sitting room, but he stopped as soon as he stepped inside. A very familiar piano sat in the corner, clean of the dust that surely would have coated it after all these years.

"Of course there's the matter of going through Father's things," Mycroft began, "frankly they can throw everything out to the street, as far as I'm concerned, but he still had a few of Mother's things and…I knew you would like to have this."

His heart began pounding, and before he knew it he realized tears were threatening to surface again. The few pleasant memories he had of his childhood were of sitting at that piano.

"Mycroft…"

"I can have it moved to Baker Street," Mycroft offered. He smiled sadly. "I'm sure John could use a break from the violin."

"I'm sure John would kill me if I brought another musical instrument into the flat," Sherlock replied. He smiled for the first time all week. "Keep it here."

Mycroft glanced at him, surprised.

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded.

"After all, you're the one who knows how to play," he said, "I'm sure John would grow tired of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'."

Mycroft smirked but remained silent, obviously unsure of what else to say.

"Do you still remember how to play?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft laughed; it was one of the only times he had ever heard him truly laugh.

"She made me practice for an hour each day," he replied. "If there was one goal in Mother's life it was ensuring that I was able to play the piano."

"Play something, then."

Mycroft's eyes widened; he might as well have asked him to reveal nuclear codes. He laughed again, uneasily, as he ran a hand over his head.

"I'll call you a cab," Mycroft said. "You need to go home, rest-"

"No, I'm good."

A smile played at his lips as he wondered over to the bookshelves lining the walls and pretended to be busy examining the collection there.

Mycroft sighed and took a seat at the piano. He tested a few of the keys first. The strained sounds indicated the instrument's age, but that only made the pang of sadness inside him grow even more.

Soon, a familiar melody filled the room. Sherlock froze as he searched his mind for the place he knew the song from. The reel of memories landed somewhere around age seven, and he remembered being in his bedroom, alone, and hearing the song play. He thought of interrupting and asking about the memory, but he let Mycroft continue. His brother was far too immersed in the song to interrupt him now. The song wasn't perfect, he missed a few notes every now and then, but Sherlock continued to listen quietly.

Absent minded, he began looking through a few of the books on the shelves: old textbooks, books he remembered from their childhood, photo albums of family members he hardly remembered. From the third album a loose photo fell out; he caught it before it could hit the floor.

Sherlock stared at the picture in his hands. It was of he and his brother at ages ten and seventeen. He could remember the time clearly- it was in between their childhood bickering stage and the true bitterness that developed between them. He couldn't get over how _young_ Mycroft looked. To his horror, he realized it would only be three years later that their world would change forever.

Mycroft continued to play, and Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to guess that he was trapped in the same memories. They spent so much time apart, but sometimes he realized they weren't too different. He realized now how hard it must have been for Mycroft, who had always been so ambitious, to be burdened by so much. If he thought about it too much he would be ridiculed by guilt, knowing he hadn't made things easier and- even worse- knowing he never really changed.

Sherlock placed the picture back in the book and closed the album. He was certain he had the same photograph buried somewhere at Baker Street. He turned to say something, but Mycroft must have sensed it.

"Don't go," Mycroft said. He suddenly stopped playing. His hands trembled above the keys, and Sherlock wondered if he realized he sounded so desperate. "I'm taking a sick day."

He took his mobile out of his pocket.

"Don't do that," Sherlock protested.

"I haven't taken a sick day in ten years," Mycroft said. "I think the world can do without me for one day."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. His brother stood up from the piano so that he could leave to make his call.

As soon as the piano was free Sherlock took a seat. His eyes roamed over the keys, as though they were more old family photos. He hardly knew where to begin, but as he slowly began placing his fingers down on the black and white keys he was able to pick up the tune Mycroft was just playing.

"You can stay as long as you'd like."

He jumped upon hearing his brother's voice. He simply nodded quietly. His fingers remained stagnant above the keys; somehow, he couldn't figure out the next note.

"B," Mycroft said. His brother placed a finger on the correct key, and Sherlock instantly recognized the note.

Mycroft offered him a small smile before leaving the room. He could hear his brother giving someone a tall tale about a bad case of the flu. He could have just told them that his father passed away and he needed time, but Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft's _team_ never even found out.

He was so caught up in figuring out the song that he missed his brother's footsteps entering the room once more.

"If that's any indication of their interrogation skills I may need to make a few changes when I return to work," Mycroft smirked. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably when he realized his brother was standing over him, arms crossed as he studied him. "Lestrade's been leaving messages, asking about you. You should phone him. He's worried."

Sherlock nodded, but he wasn't sure what to say.

"And you should probably let John know you're okay," Mycroft continued. His brother waltzed over to the window and gazed outside at the yard. "He's been texting me all morning."

"I suppose someone should tell them I can look after myself," Sherlock remarked.

Mycroft laughed.

He paused for a moment. Sherlock continued to search for the proper melody as Mycroft considered his next words.

"You were the apple of her eye," Mycroft said. He knew he was talking about their mother; suddenly Sherlock's throat closed up again. "I was only ever so hard on you because she would have been. She loved you so much…you hardly even knew."

Sherlock continued playing, more fiercely now, uncertain of where his knowledge of the melody came from. He forced back the tears that threatened to rise again; he swallowed away the lump in his throat as he thought of his mother, sitting at this same piano.

"She would have been so proud." Sherlock stopped, drawing in a short breath as he was stunned by Mycroft's words. He turned around, and his brother grinned. "She always loved detective stories."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. He couldn't help but to wonder if Mycroft was making this up to make him feel better.

"Really?"

Mycroft nodded and wondered over to the bookshelf. He handed Sherlock a tattered copy of Agatha Christie's _And Then There Were None_.

"It was her favorite," Mycroft explained.

Sherlock accepted the book. He held his breath as he opened it to the first page. The inside covered was signed by a child's handwriting, and he remembered his mother's tales of her sister who always stole her belongings. The pages were well-worn and smelled of dust, but somehow he still felt a connection with his past that he hadn't in a long time.

"Can I keep this?" He asked.

He didn't consider that this could be a prized possession of Mycroft's. Nevertheless, his brother nodded.

"Of course," he replied.

He remembered reading the book long ago, and he remembered right away how it ended. Yet he still grinned to himself as he began reading the first page, thinking of how his mother did the same as a small child.

"You're not off the hook," Mycroft said. Sherlock only vaguely heard him. "You do know that after your behavior this week I will be tracking you closely for at least a month."

Sherlock stiffened, but he knew he had no right to argue. Now that he looked back on the past few days he knew his behavior was appalling. He was pleased to realize the withdrawal symptoms were fading, and they would not be missed. But found that he could not be bothered by these thoughts anymore, not as he crossed over and threw himself onto the sofa with his mother's book still in hand.

"Are you ever not tracking me, Mycroft?"

His brother smirked.

"True," he said, "but with good intention."

Already too wrapped up in the book, Sherlock ignored him. Without taking off his shoes he placed one foot on the end of the sofa and then the other. It was a habit he knew his brother loathed, but Mycroft did not protest as he sat back down at the piano and began playing once more. They remained like that for hours, as silent as ever- and yet closer than ever.

* * *

Author's Note: And so concludes _Three Days_. Thank you so much for reading and for all of your kind reviews! Please let me know what your thoughts are on a prequel! And I would greatly appreciate knowing your final thoughts on the ending.


	7. Author's Note

Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the support for this story! I have finally posted a prequel/sequel to _Three Days_! It is called _Seventeen_, and the new story can be found in my profile. _Seventeen_ will be a series of one-shots that traces the events leading up to _Three Days_. It won't be told in any certain order, and I am taking requests for chapter ideas. There are many possibilities of what this story can be! So please check it out, and let me know what you think!


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